The Soul that Shattered
by Molten-Ashes
Summary: He screamed into the recesses of Space, begging, pleading, with Primus to let him sleep and never wake up...


Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers

Please R&R

(yeah, I've been a little down and this angsty drabble on life and the soul is a result. Anyway, enjoy!)

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><p>Nobody had known of his arrival, having fooled the satellites of earth with a simple low level electromagnetic burst that was interpreted as an unexpected solar flare.<p>

His quiet arrival hadn't been noticed.

Though the damage he performed to Megatron in revenge for his mate, so cruelly torn in half by the tyrant's servos, certainly got him noticed. His blades had cut deep, his fist striking powerful blows that split his knuckle joints and crushed cheek plating when his dual swords were swiped free of his grip.

He retrieved his swords after the battle, sharp and deadly dripping with mech-blood, Cybertronian glyphs branded on the flats of the blades as he flicked them half heartedly before folding them back into his wrist guards that looked like heavy gauntlets on his fore arms, weighing him down to the physical plane.

His leader welcomed him, his optics alight with proud and happy fire that extinguished when he saw the scarring over his frame. His chest plates were covering in frantic claw marks of his own making when a precious bond had snapped like taunt steel cable suddenly cut. His red chevron was fractured painfully down one side, a spider webbing crack on the remaining segment that clung to the golden crest on his fore helm. One optic was a different colour, a sky blue that clashed with his original solid gold, a scar trickling down his left cheek plate, badly attended to after a battle had nearly wiped out the rest of his squad.

He bowed before his Prime, his friends, long thought gone and never to be seen nor heard again gathering around him. Ratchet grumbling and scanning him as he attended to his shoddy repairs.

He felt his empty spark give a fond twinge; can you repair my broken spark? He wanted to ask, to shake the medic, as he was dragged past the small humans that watched him surprise as he was shoved into the medbay.

"Primus, what did you do to yourself Prowl?" Ratchet grumbled as he fired up his welder and sought to heal the already broken tactician.

"Nothing you hopefully can't fix Ratchet" he replied his voice dull and hissing with disuse apart from screaming into the deepest recesses of space, begging Primus, anybody, to let him sleep and never wake up, to end the torure of living without his other half.

But Ratchet couldn't fix sparks. He could weld plating and smooth out damaged circuitry, but he couldn't fix a soul that had been ripped, splintered and shredded into sharp painful shards, that stung like liquid nitrogen whenever he reached out for the one who was not there.

He arrived on duty a week later, sullen, withdrawn, humbled, before his spirit's physical ache. Where he had once tolerated socialising, he turned away into the darkness of his office hearing his work's familiar rhythmic call.

His spark, his soul, was ancient and didn't belong in this new organic world, where life was over in mostly a vorn. He talked with a wounded soldier as he lay dying on one of the battle's edges, the medics too far away to reach them in time. The man was covered in his own blood, his hand a blotted ruby from where he had held his wound, given to him by flying shrapnel from an exploding building. Prowl sensed a young soul, and it made his already broken spark shudder in revulsion and horror.

"You're a broken soul" the man had said softly as he sat beside the human, comforting him in his last moments "You've lost someone that was the centre of your world"

"My bondmate" he replied just as hesitantly

"I know the feeling of loss too, almost everyone in NEST does" the soldier said as if he was a long time comrade in arms, his eyes loosing there bright sheen that was familiar to all humans in their soft optics that held an array of colours, moods and empathic auras. They had no concentration of a soul, like a spark; they had it in every molecule of their being, bright and almost visible to creatures such as Prowl who could, and had, traded half of his own soul for his lover's millennia ago. "My Sister" the dying human rasped "She died in action"

"My mate was torn in half by Megatron" Prowl finally voiced his secret bondmate's fate. Nobody knew, and nobody would ever know but this dying human, bleeding on the battlefield.

"You'll see each other again" the young man croaked as a trail of blood escaped his lips, the sign of internal bleeding. "I don't know how long you guys live for, but you'll get there in the end."

"You are confident" Prowl said tilting his helm his bi-coloured optics, a flashing gold and striking blue shuttering in surprise at the fearlessness of the human as his soul departed to the human Well of Sparks. "Yet, you are fearful"

"Everyone is scared of dying" the young man coughed, his voice becoming more faint as the conversation went on. "I was scared of dying alone. So… thanks I guess"

"You're welcome" Prowl replied empathically as he heard Megatron bellow a retreat to his troops. He looked up as he heard Ratchet's wrench connect with Sideswipe's helm for 'taking an unnecessary risk that could have gotten his young yahoo aft deactivated!' He smiled softly and then looked back down to the human and narrowed his optics in silent despair as he saw the dull lifeless eyes of the human man whose body was pierced by rubble.

"May your soul rest… friend" Prowl rumbled in Cybertronian standing from his crouch as the field medics raced to the young man's side, confirming what Prowl gleaned from just a simple scan. He turned his gaze to Optimus who had moved to stand beside him, his arms crossed against his chest plates. "Optimus… I have something to tell you…"

His name was Prowl. Second in Command of the Autobot army, an elite strategist, a Cybertronian originating from a decimated city once called Praxus, a seasoned veteran of the Great War and he died recharging in his office the next morning over a half finished data-pad. His spark, his soul, having finally crumbled into dust to join its mate, Jazz, dancing through the cosmos for the rest of eternity never to be parted again…


End file.
